Chapter 4
There had been no point in lingering.
The vows were spoken, the alliance sealed. The longer they remained under McIntosh’s roof, the more time people had to whisper, to look at him with curiosity and pity, to look at her with the wide eyes they saved for a lass whose groom had run.
So, he gave the order. “Make ready to depart within the hour,” he told the same servant who broke him the news about Hunter.
The horses were saddled. Packs were secured. Farewells were spoken in a rush of embraces and murmured blessings. He saw Ariella’s mother cling to her, and saw Frederick pull his sister into a fierce hug, his expression a mix of pride and something that looked almost like apology.
Maxwell looked away. These partings were not his to witness.
They rode out beneath a sky still pale with afternoon, McNeill men falling into line behind him. Ariella rode at his side on a smaller mare, the blue of her wedding gown hidden beneath a thick cloak. The wind tugged at the loose strands of her dark hair and brought color to her cheeks.
Silence rode with them.
He had never been a man for idle talk, and the weight of the day pressed heavy on his tongue. He could feel her glancing at him now and then, quick, furtive looks that slid away the moment he met them. He kept his eyes on the road, on the rise and fall of the land he knew well.
He was decidedly angry. As it was the only feeling at the moment that wouldn’t ensnare his new bride.
He was angry at Hunter, first and foremost. The boy had shamed his own name and left others to pick up the pieces. Maxwell had spent years shaping him, teaching him, pressing him toward duty, and still the lad had chosen the easiest path, running from what was needed.
He was angry at Frederick, for keeping his sister blind to the truth until the last possible moment.
Angry at the priest, for fumbling and blinking as if marriage were some novelty.
Angry at the clans watching, some of them no doubt relishing the spectacle.
Angriest at himself, because he had seen Hunter’s carelessness for years and yet still thought he could trust him on this.
The sun slid downward as they rode, staining the horizon in streaks of red and gold. The air grew sharper. When the first faint stars appeared, he raised a hand.
“We will stop at that hunting lodge,” he said. “Another few hours from here and there is shelter enough.”
Ariella nodded, her face pale with fatigue. She did not complain. He noticed that, despite his best efforts to ignore her.
The hunting lodge stood in a small clearing, a squat shape of stone and timber half hidden by trees. He had used it often over the years, for winter hunts and solitary nights when the keep had felt too crowded with ghosts. Smoke did not rise from its chimney now; it had been empty for some time.
He swung from his horse, joints protesting, and gave curt orders for the men to see to the animals and make camp outside. He would sleep inside with his new wife. The words still felt strange in his own head.
He pushed open the door. Cold air and the scent of dust greeted him. The hearth was empty, only a few charred logs left. Cobwebs clung between the rafters.
“It is nae much,” he said, almost grudgingly. “But it keeps the wind out.”
“It is fine,” Ariella answered at once. Her voice was softer than usual, but steady. “Better than the ground.”
She stepped past him without hesitation, cloak swirling, and began to look around with quick, practical eyes. Before he could stop her, she found an old broom propped in a corner and began to sweep.
“Ye daenae need to do that,” he said.
“Someone must,” she replied, pushing dust into a pile with brisk strokes. “There is nay sense in breathing all this in while we sleep.”
He bit back the reminder that they would only be here one night. She fetched a bucket from beside the door, peered inside, wrinkled her nose, and went out again to find the well.
Maxwell set his jaw and went to check the shutters, making certain each one latched. The wind would pick up after midnight. It always did in these hills. He laid fresh logs in the hearth, his hands moving through familiar motions.
She returned with water, cheeks pink from the cold, and set the bucket near the hearth. Then she found a cloth and began to wipe down the table, humming under her breath.
The sound, oddly domestic in the bare room, unsettled him more than silence would have.
He did not thank her. He was not sure he knew how, in this context. Gratitude for allies and warriors, that he understood. For a lass who swept a floor so they would not sneeze in the night, he did not.
Yet when she straightened and smiled at him, tired but bright, something shifted between them.
“At least we will nae choke on dust,” she said, running her hands down the length of her makeshift apron.
“Hm,” he managed.
He struck flint to steel and lit the fire. Flames caught, small at first, then licking higher as he fed them. The lodge warmed slowly, shadows dancing along the walls.
Ariella busied herself with their packs, laying out blankets, setting her comb and a small pouch of herbs on the table. He noticed her arranging things with care, as if claiming the space, making it less stark.
“Is this lodge used often?” she asked after a moment.
“Only when needed,” he said.
“Ye come here on hunts?”
“Aye.”
“Alone?”
“Mostly.”
She seemed to consider that. “Ye like solitude.”
“I like quiet,” he corrected.
“Is there a difference?”
“One has less chatter in it.”
She blinked, then gave a short laugh. “That is fair.”
He did not mean to look at her then, not directly, but he did. The firelight caught in her hair, turned the dark strands warm. She had taken off the small circlet and veil, and her face seemed younger without them, less burdened, though the day’s strain still marked the corners of her eyes.
He looked away, annoyed with himself.
She did not seem to notice. Or if she did, she pretended not to. Instead, she kept talking.
“How far are we from McNeill lands now?” she asked.
“A few hours’ ride in the morning.”
“Is yer keep much larger than me braither’s?”
“Larger. Older.”
“Does it have many people?”
“Enough.”
She hummed. “Do they ken about me?”
“They ken their laird rode to fetch a bride.”
“A bride for yer braither,” she corrected.
He said nothing.
She glanced at him, lips pressing together for a moment. Then, softly, “They will be surprised, then.”
“Aye.”
“Do ye think they will like me?”
The question prodded at him. It sounded light, but he heard the thread beneath it. She was trying to fill the air, he told himself. To keep her mind from the fact that she was alone in a remote lodge with a man she had married that morning.
He still missed that she might be nervous.
“They will respect ye,” he said. “In time.”
“Respect is a start,” she murmured.
She fussed with the edge of a blanket, then tried again. “What is McNeill like? The land, I mean.”
“Rock. Hills. Wind,” he said. “The sea, if ye ride far enough.”
“Is it beautiful?”
He hesitated. Then, grudgingly, “Aye. It can be.”
Her smile flickered into being again, softer this time. “I should like to see the sea.”
“Ye will,” he almost said. The thought surprised him enough that he shifted, uncomfortable.
The questions went on. About the shape of the hall, the names of the nearby villages, whether there were many children about, what crops grew best in rocky soil. Each answer drew another question, like tugging a knot that only tightened with each pull.
He felt his temper begin to fray, not in any hot way, but with a weary rasp, like rope over stone.
“Ariella,” he said at last.
She broke off mid question about the kitchen and blinked. “Aye?”
“Sit.”
She blinked again. “Sit?”
“Aye,” he said. He gestured toward the hearth. “By the fire.”
She hesitated, glancing from him to the flames, then back. “Have I said something wrong?”
“Nay,” he answered. “But if this is to work, we need to set some ground between us. Sit, and we will speak plain.”
Her curiosity flared at once, bright as ever. She gathered her skirts and went to the hearth, lowering herself onto the small bench there. The firelight wrapped around her, throwing her features into warm relief.
He remained standing for a moment, looking at her. His wife. Lady of his keep. The shield between two clans and an old enemy.
It still felt unreal. Yet it was done.
He sat opposite her, his back to the rough stones of the wall, the flames between them.
“Very well,” she said, hands folded in her lap. “Let us speak plain.”
He had expected her to bridle. To bristle at the suggestion of rules as if he were some judge listing the terms of her confinement.
Instead she leaned forward slightly, eyes intent, as if he had just placed a map between them and invited her to study it.
“Ye said ground,” she prompted. “What sort of ground.”
He curled his hands around his knees, keeping his posture loose, his tone steady. “This marriage was nae planned. Nae like this. Ye ken that.”
“Aye,” she said. There was no bitterness in the word. Only truth.
“We will both need space,” he continued. “And… order. If we are to make it work. So. I would set a few rules to start with.”
“Rules,” she repeated. “For me?”
“For us,” he corrected. “If I have expectations of ye, ye are free to have expectations of me in return.”
Her brows rose at that. He saw surprise there, and something like cautious interest. “Very well. What are yer rules, Laird.”
“First,” he said, ignoring the way the title sat between them, heavier than it had in the hall. “Nay talk of me past.”
She tilted her head. “At all?”
“At all,” he said. “What is done is done. It serves none to pick over old wounds.”
She studied him, gaze searching, then nodded slowly. “If that is what ye wish.”
“It is.”
“Then I will nae ask,” she said. A small line appeared between her brows. “Though I reserve the right to think ye are being stubborn about it.”